


Strays

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Other, about a man and a cat, but not in a weird way, gawd why you gotta make everything weird, just enjoy the cute, this is just a fluffy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:19:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: Bucky Barnes is frightened by a shadow outside his window but finds its owner not so sinister as he thought.Based on this post on Tumblr: https://marvels-queen-bee.tumblr.com/post/177090166642





	Strays

Another sleepless night. Bucky was used to it. Laying on his thin mattress, staring at the slats of light along the ceiling. His tattered curtains did little to keep the moonlight out. The occasional car passed, unsettling him further. He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as if he could force himself to sleep by his own strength. He sighed and laid flat on his back, throwing his arm out in exasperation. He almost longed for the cryogenic capsule he had been held comatose in for nearly a century. At least then he could rest. There he didn’t know who he was or what he had done.

There was no place for him in this new world.

As he opened his eyes, a shadow loomed across the room. Distorted where the wall met the ceiling; elongated and grotesque. He sat up and turned to the window. There was nothing there. Looking back, the specter had disappeared. It must have been his overtired mind conjuring up horrors. He bent his legs, crossing his arms atop them and resting his chin on his wrists. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. What he was living for. He was drowning in inevitability. One day he would be discovered. He would have to face the crimes he had committed. The acts he didn’t even remember. Only in the fractured frame of his nightmares could he recall those years. Maybe it hadn’t truly been him, but it had been his hands that had wrought carnage on others.

He collapsed back onto the mattress with a thump. He picked at the metal of his arm. This thing attached to him. This weapon of death. That’s all he had been. A weapon. A harbinger of doom. The enemy of the living; the innocent. He buried his head beneath his pillow, hiding there until he could barely draw breath. When he pushed his head to the surface, he was crying. The tears were slow and silent. They burnt his skin as they trickled along his nose.  
He closed his eyes again and shuddered. He wasn’t tired, only weak. There would be no sleep this night, like the night before and the one to follow.

* * *

The shadow had returned. Bucky didn’t notice at first. He had been so immersed in the pages before him that the room had turned to dust around him. Most days he spent unloading fruits and vegetables for the vendors in the town square or he would find small maintenance or repair jobs at local business. After his daily labour at the local market, he had found a small bookshop on the corner. He need something more to do than dwell in his misery. 

He had ventured inside, finding a book of poems from the war. He had spent ten minutes staring at it before daring to touch it. He paid for it quickly, trembling as he left the cramped shop.

Night had fallen quickly without his notice. He had drained a cup of tea as he sat atop his mattress, leaning against the wall, his head bent over his new book. It was well worn; the spine broken, the pages smelled of dust. A small lamp sat beside him, enough light to guide his eyes. He had been frightened to begin; to open the cover. But the words were therapeutic. Echoing those feelings which he had never thought to speak of. The words of the dead.

When he saw the shadow, it was moving. It was clearer this time. Four long limbs, a tail in a spiral, unwinding and curling as it swayed back and forth. Two ears like horns on its head as it paced outside his window. Bucky set aside the book, focusing on the shadow. He slowly, quietly climbed to his knees and turned, looking over the sill with dread. Two yellow eyes met his, flashing before the figure scurried away, noiselessly fleeing down the fire escape.

It was only a cat. It’s grey fur looked dirty and its face gaunt with hunger. He had only spotted it for a moment but it was much smaller than its shadow. Bucky tried to keep track of its descent but it soon faded into the night, off to search for its dinner in a dumpster. His heart had been racing. Somewhere in his frayed mind, he had thought a beast had come to haunt him. The demonic personification of his misdeeds.

But it was only a cat.

He sat back, opening the book again as the words came into focus before him. He read three sentences without understanding them. He snapped shut the cover and exhaled in frustration. He set aside the book and climbed to his feet. He moved across the dim apartment, feeling around in the attached kitchen until he found the cupboard door. He pulled out the only can and hooked his finger through the tab. He tossed aside the lid and made his way back across the room, sliding open the window with one arm. He dumped the smelly sardines on the flat rail of the fire escape where the cat had been.  
He closed the window and fell back onto the mattress. He took the book once more, this time the words made sense. He read till the end, when the dawn was glowing just outside his building. If he had time, he would buy another book.

* * *

Bucky clung to the twine handles of the paper bag. He had found three books that day; each one a different genre. He had found a scuffed copy of Frankenstein; a book he had read as an adolescent. The other books he hadn’t read; one was a so-called thriller about a woman who disappeared, and the last was a graphic novel about a post-apocalyptic world. His taste in literature was proving rather grim.

As he passed the alleyway beside his building, he heard a metallic rustling. He paused and looked down the passage. Nothing. He made to continue on but another noise followed. He stared at the grimy alley, hesitating before he stepped forward. There were three aluminum trash cans against the next building; the middle one appeared to be trembling. As he neared, a small grey form leapt from its mouth and landed before him. He froze in momentary fright.

The cat had a plastic ring stuck around its neck.

Bucky knelt slowly, setting down his bag of books carefully. The cat looked ready to flee. He raised his hands peaceably and the cat looked around. He turned his hand palm up, patiently welcoming the feline closer. Sniffing the air, the cat took a step nearer but retreated once more. Warily, the cat seemed to struggle with itself. 

It came close enough to touch, its nose brushing over Bucky’s hand. He latched onto the plastic ring before the cat could escape. He tugged with both hands until it snapped, freeing the cat as it growled and promptly flitted away, disappearing back into the alley. Bucky tore the ring into four pieces and dumped it into the trash can, grumbling to himself as he retrieved his bag. 

As he entered his apartment, he set his bag on the counter and filled a glass with tap water. He drank as he sat on the only chair, his leg swaying back and forth as he leaned his head back. He finished the water and left his glass in the sink as he crossed to the window. He slid it open, a breeze filling the stuffy space. The sill was empty; the sardines greedily devoured since his departure that morning. He tapped his fingers on the window.

He left the window open, the small apartment felt like a furnace in the summer heat. He hung his jacket on the back of his chair and returned to the kitchen. He pulled out the chicken breast in his fridge and a stalk of broccoli. He stirred around his cupboards as he set to cooking. There was enough chicken to leave some out on the fire escape. He wasn’t very hungry anyways.

* * *

Distant sirens sounded through the small space between window and sill. Bucky had left the pane slightly open, his bed felt damp from his own sweat. Mary Shelley’s words burned into his eyes as he read in the small glow of lamp light. Even after almost eighty years, he recognized the words; the overly-detailed prose and neverending sentences. This time, however, the story of the cursed monster took on a different meaning. One which he could relate to.

He turned the page as something small and slightly moist landed on his head before sliding down his cheek. He looked up to the window where the morsel of chicken had slipped from and met a familiar pair of yellow eyes. The grey cat had followed his lost mouthful and was looking down at Bucky in a mixture of hunger and fear. The cat was halfway through the window, squeezed beneath the low frame on its stomach.

Bucky picked up the chicken and slowly raised it towards the cat. The feline took it in its teeth carefully, wriggling back to chew it over the sill. When it finished, the cat pulled its rear end through the window and stared down at the man below him. It meowed and waited. When it received no response, it meowed again and jabbed Bucky’s head with its paw. It must have still been hungry.

When he stood, Bucky expected the cat to dart back through the window. The cat remained and watched as he moved to the kitchen. He searched for a small bowl and filled it with water. Next, he took out the jerky hidden in the back of his cupboard and broke it into pieces atop a saucer. He didn’t have much but it would appease the pushy feline. He set the dishes on the sill, stepping away as the cat pounced at the meal.

He retook his spot on his mattress, listening to the cat chewing above his head. He opened his book, trying not to move too suddenly. He leaned on his elbow as he began to read, flipping through the pages as he devoured the story as quickly as the cat did its food. The book was knocked from his hand as grey fur brushed against his arm. 

The cat landed before him in the crook of his arm, forcing his attention away from his reading. He stared back at the feline, its fangs bared and closing in on him. Its wet nose brushed him before its rough tongue licked him. The smell of chicken and jerky filled his nostrils as the cat rubbed against the stubble of his cheeks.

The cat was purring. Bucky was half in shock as the cat pulled away, nudging his arm with its head as it demanded his attention. It was a female, he could tell by her face. She flopped onto her side, presenting her stomach to him with a trill. Bucky cautiously touched her with his real hand; her fur was surprisingly soft. She nestled closer as his pets grew more confident.

He slid down onto his back, careful not to jostle the cat. She rose and crawled up onto his chest, curling into a ball as his fingers continued to stroke along her head. She stretched out one paw, her claws kneading at his shirt as she closed her eyes. Bucky let out the breath he had been holding and followed suit. Her purring filled the silent apartment, calming him. His eyelids were heavy, thick. His snores soon mixed with that of the cat.

It was the first night Bucky slept for more than an hour. He did not wake until noon when the cat was begging for her next meal.


End file.
